Author's Note: This is a story about Ginny being the 7th child of the 7th child in her family and can go where ever you want it to go.
The 7th Child
I stood, alone, outside of the Burrow. The wind was raging, making the gardens a mess of haphazardly scattered plants, screaming in agony (literally).
I have a fond memory of being little and remembering when Mum had told me everything about the Burrow — right down to the very last charms. She hadn't even told Bill or even dad about most of those things. I never could understand why she had felt so compelled to have only shared this information with me. I smile at the thought, swinging my legs in the tall grasses.
It was July 7th right now, the seventh day of the seventh month. I had always found sevens in my life somehow. There was always seven presents in my stocking at Christmas time, or how whenever Mum bought me something like a pack of every flavor beans, there were always seven of every flavor. No more, no less. When I had met Luna, there had been exactly seven beads on her old copper band. She'd lost it shortly after, though.
And how could I forget the big one. Me. I was a seventh child – the seventh Weasley child, so to speak. Right after, William Weasley, Charlie Weasley. Percy Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, and last but not least, Ronald Weasley. All wonderful, if you excluded the fact that they ate like pigs, could be very mean older siblings and were male. I felt my features wrinkle into a face of disgust, something they would have done if Fred or George had let a stink bomb lose in the house. Mum wouldn't have been happy either.
I never fully understood how special being a seventh was, really. Being a seventh was… It was wonderful and all, yes, but there was a meaning much deeper to it then I could have imagined. Something so unheard of to my ears, that when they'd told me, I hadn't believed them. I hadn't believed them one bit. I was sure, no, absolutely sure that I simply could not be a witch of that power, of that magical capability, or that… speciality. After all, I was a Weasley, whether I liked it or not. Weasley's were not special people. We could barely afford the Burrow, nonetheless be considered special by any means.
Yet, there I'd stood, gaping and wide-eyed, in Dumbledor's grand office at the end of my first year at Hogwarts, believing every word. Praying to Merlin that none of this was a joke and that for once I could not feel like the foolish Weasley girl in hand-me-down robes. Being a seventh was special – more then special! It was my gift. He'd told me I'd do great things, great things Ginny Weasley, great things…
But that was then, and this is now, and now was no longer a game. Now there was suffering. Now were there dead and now was there so much pain. The world was so wrapped up in times of dread that not even I could pay any attention to the little girl with bright brown eyes who'd been so surprised that she could be the seventh.
I sigh, dismal with such thoughts of loss, and take a seat on the wet grass. It wasn't something I would have normally done. I hated getting any of my clothes dirty – too much work for Mother. I looked up at the sky, still so lively and full of sun, my eyes seemingly glaring at its joy.
What had happened to me? I wonder. Where had all my bursts of incredible magic gone? I'd been able to conjure a magnificent Patronus and, if I do say so myself, casted quite a few spells at the battle at the Ministry.